


Catching Up

by silentdescant



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m not here to catch you, I’m here to bring you home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Up

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching the series finale and I couldn't let it end there. Pretty major spoilers ahead, obviously. Thank you, Jeff Eastin & co. for making such an awesome show. ♥

Neal is in Venice when Peter finally catches up to him. He’s living under the name Christopher, because he likes the way the Italian accent shapes it; it’s been close to two years since anyone’s called him Neal. He’s almost becoming Christopher now, it’s so well ingrained into his consciousness.

But he steps off the bridge and walks toward his favorite café and hears, “Hello, Neal,” in a deep, amused voice that’s so familiar to him it makes his breath catch in his throat. He turns to his right, following the source of the sound, and finds Peter sitting at one of the patio tables, holding a tiny cup of cappuccino. Peter’s wearing a loose Oxford shirt with the top three buttons undone; he’s not here in any official capacity. Neal still has trouble forcing his legs to carry him to the table.

“Long time, no see,” Peter says knowingly as Neal sits in the seat opposite him.

“You figured it out.”

“You’re smart, Neal, but you’re not that smart.” Peter puts the cup down on its saucer and extends his hand partway across the table and stops, like he wants to touch Neal but has reconsidered. Neal’s achingly familiar with the urge.

“You underestimate me,” Neal replies. “You always have. I meant for you to figure it out. I’m surprised it took you this long.”

“Oh, this? Now? This is just me finally taking some time off work to come and visit. I’ve known where you are for a while now.”

Neal doesn’t believe him, but it doesn’t matter. Peter’s here now, and that’s what matters. Neal reaches over and clasps Peter’s hand in his own. “I’m glad you came,” he says, barely concealing his excitement. “I’ve missed you.”

“And you know you’re in the clear. Unless I catch you for a new crime. What have you been up to lately, I wonder…”

“Peter…”

Peter grins. “Relax, Neal, I’m not here to catch you, I’m here to bring you home.”

Neal lets his hand slip away. “I can’t go home, Peter. The Panthers—and Keller—”

“Keller’s dead,” Peter tells him softly. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

“But they’ll know by now that Keller’s the one who killed me, and that we were working together. I can’t go back to that life, Peter. It would put everyone I love in danger. You and El, Moz, June… Your kid.”

Peter tilts his head to one side. “Do you know his name? My boy’s?”

It had been a huge temptation to check up on Peter and Elizabeth a year and a half ago, when they’d brought their little one into the world, but the heat in New York was still way too strong back then. Neal doesn’t even feel comfortable returning to the United States now. He shakes his head and says, “If I looked it up, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist seeing you again.”

“Neal,” Peter says. “That’s his name. Neal.”

“Neal? Peter, are you—Really?”

Peter rests his elbows on the table and leans over, meeting Neal’s eyes steadily. He lowers his voice in a distinctly fatherly way that means he wants Neal to listen carefully. “I know why you ran away, Neal, but I promise you, it’s safe now.”

“You can’t promise that, Peter. I’m not willing to risk your life, or your family’s.”

“It’s time to come home.”

Neal shakes his head again. “I have everything I need right here. Look at this city, Peter. Why would I go back to New York? I have a life here. I have art, and coffee, and a pretty great wine collection, now that I don’t have a friend coming over to steal it all the time.” He sobers a little, and he sees Peter’s eyes flicking down, taking in every microexpression and filing away the information for analysis. Peter’s always been good at reading him, and it used to keep Neal on his toes, trying to stay one step ahead or conceal one vital piece of information, but he’s out of practice.

“You don’t have us,” Peter says. “We miss you. Mozzie was devastated. You have to—”

“Moz knows,” Neal cuts in. “He’s been out to see me a few times, actually. So don’t try to tempt me with him.”

This news surprises Peter; his eyes widen slightly and he moves back a few centimeters. Apparently he’s kept the fact that Neal’s alive pretty close to the vest. Neal’s grateful for that, at least.

“Well,” Peter says, quick to recover, “El and I miss you. And I want you to meet your namesake. We always meant for you to play a part in his life.”

“How old is he, now?” Neal asks, though Peter’s quirked eyebrows show that he doesn’t at all believe Neal doesn’t know his son’s birthday.

“Old enough for you to babysit,” Peter answers firmly. “Come on, Neal. You’re safe. We’re safe. Come home to us now.”

Neal looks out over the canal, at the sparkling water and the beautifully painted gondolas. He loves it here, loves walking from his small apartment to the Ca’Rezzonico, where he goes to study the art. He loves painting here, next to his open window, because of the beautiful, clear quality of the sunlight, and he loves hearing the water of the canals lap at the docks during the quiet nights. He feels settled, for the first time in a very long time.

But he’s still not free. Here in Venice, he is Christopher. In Paris, during his brief stay, he was Matteo. He already has his next identity planned out, if he ever finishes his work here. He’ll go to Madrid next, and he’ll be Dominic. Neal doesn’t want to leave Venice, though.

“You’re free, Neal,” Peter tells him. “I can’t force you. I just came here to tell you that… So you would know that…”

“That what?”

Peter presses his lips together in a tight, restrained smile. “That we want you back. That _I_ want you back.”

“I’m not free here,” Neal admits quietly. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but I’m not myself. I do want to come home, Peter. I intend to come home. But I can’t. It’s not safe for you. It’s better for everyone if I just stay gone.” He gestures around them, to the café and the canal, to the city. “It’s not so bad, huh?”

“What will it take?” Peter asks after a few moments of silence. “What will make you feel safe again? Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”

“What, you’ll kill them like you killed Keller?” Neal asks with a pointedly raised eyebrow. “They’re in prison, Peter. I don’t think that’s gonna fly.”

Peter leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks so dad-like. Family man is a good look for him, Neal decides. Peter stares him down and says, “So you’ll never feel safe enough to come back, is what you’re telling me.”

Neal shrugs. “If I do— _when_ I do—you’ll be the first to know.”

They stare at each other for a while, quietly assessing, but Neal has made his argument and Peter has said his piece, and it’s obvious to Neal that neither of them will budge. It’s a stand-off, and it doesn’t matter that Neal’s not happy with the result, he can’t give in. At long last, Peter stands up from the table and claps Neal on the shoulder, urging him up as well.

“I’m catching a flight out tomorrow afternoon,” he says. “Why don’t you show me the sights?”

Neal smiles. “That, I can do.”

 

_fin_.


End file.
